I indulge in a good amount of Forked Lightning envy. I like to imagine me and my percheron horse Toby sailing across 5,000 acres of gold grass beneath a sky like this.

The beautiful Greer Garson once lived in the fine house beyond these gates. I wonder what lucky equines lived in this horse heaven and grazed these high mountain pastures?

When I cross the bridge, I never fail to look for the beaver who built this dam. But have yet to see one.

I suppose there's a whole long lineage of beavers who've called this creek home. Do you suppose they have a name? You know, like La Familia De Los Beaverados or something? Can they trace themselves back to Coronado and beyond? Do they remember the grizzly bear? Are they snug in their pine twig house when the creek freezes solid? Are they peering at me from behind the cattails?

OK. I've got my fill.

For now.